Secrets Are Never Kept for Long
by Miroslav
Summary: Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead. HodgesGrissom, companion piece to Pure Exhiliration, Pure Desperation.


Title: Secrets Are Never Kept for Long  
Author: Miroslav  
Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer: I could say something funny, but...can't think of anything. No, I do not own any of the CSI cast (though I'd offer all my savings if I could get one of them.)  
Warnings: Betting on people's sex lives, blissful ignorance, sexual frustration  
Pairing(s): Gil Grissom/David Hodges  
Summary: _Secrets are never kept for long, especially at the Clark County Crime Lab._  
Spoilers: "Kiss Kiss, Bye Bye," "XX," and vaguely "A Bullet Runs Through It (2)"  
A/N: This is a companion piece of sorts to my other Grissom/Hodges fic, Pure Exhiliration, Pure Desperation, or they can be read separately. Oh, and each part of this fic jumps around the CSI timeline, but all are post-"Grave Danger."  
Word Count: 4,127

_**Secrets Are Never Kept for Long**_

**1. **

Sara cannot help but be pleased by the slight widening of Grissom's eyes when she says, "Hodges, don't you know that gray hair can be very attractive?" The fact that she temporarily renders Hodges speechless is just icing on the cake. She tucks that memory away, to bring out later and celebrate over on a bad day.

Sara's good mood remains with her for the rest of the night and seeps into the next, up until approximately three AM. She has just gotten a fingerprint match off the gun found at a double homicide, and knows Grissom will want the details immediately. Hurrying towards his office, she slows when she realizes that he is with someone. Familiar voices filter out the door, which is slightly ajar, and despite the fact that she hasn't eavesdropped since college, she tiptoes closer and tries to listen in.

"--so that puts your suspect at the crime scene." Hodges sounds pleased with himself (that's nothing new), and Sara waits for Grissom to deflate his ego.

Instead, Grissom laughs -- actually _laughs_ -- and says, "Good job, David." His voice is warm and low, and the tone is nothing she's ever heard him use before. And when did Grissom start calling Hodges by his first name? "Sara will want to see those results."

"Oh yes, Sara…." Hodges sounds sardonic, now, which is no surprise -- he and Sara have been rivals since his first day. "You know, while I could claim she was flirting with _me_ yesterday, we both know it's _your_ hair she thinks is attractive. Sexy, really."

She bites down hard on her lower lip, about to interrupt and tell Hodges it's none of his damn business if she thinks Grissom's gray hair suits him, when Grissom speaks in his soft, level voice. "David, we've discussed this. Sara's crush will fade."

Before she can even feel wounded that Grissom would downplay her feelings to him as a mere crush, Hodges speaks, voice sharp and testy. "She's not a thirteen-year-old girl, Gil. She's a thirty-five-year-old woman who is _in love_ with you, and has been since before I came here." He pauses, and Sara frowns in confusion as he sighs suddenly, the sound resigned. "Look, Gil, I've told you before, if you want to go with her--"

"David." Grissom is still using his soft, level voice, and she peeks through the door. Hodges is in profile, and so she can easily see how his body posture is stiff and his arms are folded against his chest almost defensively. Grissom is leaning against his desk, and his blue eyes are focused on Hodges, his expression serious. The two men are so focused on each other that Sara suspects they won't notice her even if she waves (not that she would, she is far too curious to interrupt this odd scene). After a moment, Grissom's lips curl into a faint half-smile and he says, "How can I convince you that _I_ find gray attractive?"

Hodges slumps, and he gives a faint laugh that sounds almost relieved even as Sara frowns and tries to figure out what Grissom could possibly mean by that. "All right, all right, I'm done with my monthly bout of paranoia."

Grissom raises an eyebrow. "Monthly?"

Hodges' laugh is more good-humored this time. "Fine, weekly. You can't blame me, Gil. I mean, she's pretty, intelligent, actually has some social skills…who would choose _me_ over someone like that?"

She feels her heart stop at that. That couldn't possibly mean what she thinks it does (but all the pieces of the puzzle are beginning to sort themselves out) -- and then she stares in a mixture of astonishment and dismay as Grissom touches Hodges' shoulder and says, voice quiet and sincere, "I would."

Sara flees then, the sheet of paper forgotten in her hands, but it is too late. The image of Grissom touching Hodges' shoulder and looking at him like he was the most important person in the world is burned into her retinas, and the conversation, with all of Grissom's calm assurances and Hodges' testy insecurities, keeps echoing in her ears. When Hodges tracks her down a half-hour later, she explains that her red-rimmed eyes and hoarse voice are from a cold she's caught from Nick, and is absurdly relieved when he buys the excuse. And if she notices Hodges and Grissom shooting her puzzled looks over the next few weeks when she no longer makes glib remarks about "older gentlemen," she ignores them. After all, Sara may be many things, but she is not someone who tries to break up relationships, even one as odd as theirs.

**2. **

Nick probably shouldn't have gone into the trace lab when Hodges wasn't there. After all, it's lab rat territory, and even worse, it's _Hodges_ territory. He has a deep suspicion that if he moves the microscope even a centimeter to the left, Hodges will return from his coffee break or wherever he is and notice it immediately.

That doesn't keep the Texan from wandering around the lab though, peering into the microscope, or checking to see if Hodges happened to leave the analysis results out for him to find. Of course the tech isn't that considerate, and Nick sighs and sits down to wait for Hodges to get back from wherever he is, because the analysis results will either make or break the case they have against their suspect.

His gaze wanders for a moment and then he blinks at the only out-of-place object in the room -- Hodges has left an open book on the counter, as though he'd been in the middle of reading it when he'd gone on break. Nick peers at it curiously, and frowns in confusion. Why is Hodges reading an _entomology_ textbook of all things?

He flips to the front and then stares in bemusement at the name on the back of the cover. 'Property of Gilbert Grissom' is written in Grissom's scrawl. This was _Grissom's_ textbook?

Nick is reminded of a few years back, when Sara had mentioned getting an entomology textbook from Grissom that Christmas. He and Hodges had exchanged a conspiratorial grin, both seeing the hidden meaning behind the present.

"Funny, _I_ didn't get a Christmas gift from Grissom. Did you?" he remembers asking a smirking Hodges, who had answered, "No." They had been a united front that day, tormenting Sara, because Gilbert Grissom did _not_ give people Christmas presents.

But even more than that, Grissom did not let people borrow his books, especially not his entomology books, _ever_. So why is one of his textbooks in the trace lab?

Nick frowns when he notices a scrap of paper sticking out from between the pages, and he flips to that spot. He recognizes the trace technician's handwriting on the paper (though the penmanship is much sloppier than usual, as though Hodges had written it in haste).

'Note to self: Read the passage about black widows and find out what the hell Gil was talking about last night.'

He blinks and stares. There is a sense of horrified understanding beginning to creep up on him, and Nick feels almost nauseous at the implication of the note's words.

He is still staring at the scrap of paper when the door to the trace lab opens.

Nick doesn't move, frozen in place, even as an irritated voice snaps, "I leave for _five_ minutes to give some results to Catherine and you invade my lab? I told you I'd page you when the results were back, Nick."

When Nick just continues staring blankly at the scrap of paper, Hodges huffs and walks over, grousing, "And there's also a thing called _privacy_, Nick. Ever heard of it?" The tech snatches the scrap of paper away from the Texan and stuffs it into his pocket as though it's just a random piece of trash, still continuing to grouse. "That means not flipping through a book and losing my place. That's a 500-page book. Do you know how long it will take me to find the page I was reading? Be more considerate next time."

Nick just continues to stare, even after Hodges snaps the book shut and puts it out of sight, and finally manages to blink and force words past his lax lips, still feeling numb with shock. "The Matthews case."

Hodges rolls his eyes in exasperation. "I _told_ you, I'll page you when the results are ready, and it won't be for another fifteen, twenty minutes at least." When Nick doesn't immediately leave, Hodges scowls. "That means you can leave."

That finally gets Nick moving, and he almost stumbles his way to the door, barely hearing Hodges' final, "And if I catch you snooping through my things ever again, your results will be at the bottom of _every_ pile, Stokes."

Nick escapes into the hallway and just stands there for a moment, trying to push away the wave of disbelief and consternation that is washing over him. Still, he cannot deny the evidence and the evidence points to Grissom and Hodges knowing each other far, far better than Nick could ever have expected. He grimaces at the images that pop into his head. He could have gone his whole life through without thinking of Grissom or Hodges (and definitely, decidedly both together) in a carnal situation.

"Nicky?" Greg is staring at him curiously. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Nick swallows, and runs a hand through his hair, misery and a thick Texan accent coloring each and every syllable as he mutters, "Whoever said ignorance was bliss was a genius, G. A freakin' Albert Einstein."

**3.**

Everyone has a proclivity that they cannot quite get rid of, no matter how hard they try. For Catherine, that proclivity happens to be smoking. She doesn't smoke _often_ -- she's had this last pack for almost a year now -- only when things get really stressful or she just needs something to relax her that won't mess with her equilibrium like alcohol would.

Today happens to be one of those days she needs a smoke. She is approximately two hours into a triple shift, and about to collapse, but they need everyone on hand (two triple homicides, a four-car pile-up that _might_ involve an incident of road rage, and an apparent jumper downtown tend to make things hectic), and she'll be damned if she doesn't spend her fifteen-minute break with a cigarette dangling from her lips.

There is a small closed-off part of the parking lot that no one ever frequents -- they had been planning on building, ironically enough, a shed for smokers and had half-built the shed before the budget had been cut and the project abandoned. No one ever goes back there, and Catherine is grateful for that. Without that half-finished shed, she doesn't know where she could smoke without getting caught (since the rooftop was lab rat territory).

Halfway there she is already fumbling with her purse, muttering a curse under her breath as she sorts through her belongings in search of her precious cigarettes and lighter. Her mouth is dry with anticipation, and she can already feel a hint of the sweet release the nicotine will bring her when her fingers close around the familiar plastic of her lighter.

Catherine stands inside the incomplete building, leaning against one of the walls as she selects a cigarette (only two cigarettes are left, and she reminds herself to get another pack the next time she's at the store). She breathes out of a sigh of relief just before she lights up and gets a first inhale of her Marlboro. She is so caught up in the sweet release that she doesn't hear the voices until the speakers are almost upon her, and then she shrinks into the shadows, although a moment later she is peeking curiously out the window.

What are Hodges and Grissom doing out here? She hesitates, wondering if she should announce her presence, but then looks guiltily at the cigarette she is holding and decides to keep quiet; instead, she takes a long drag and studies the two men.

Hodges is looking almost amused, albeit tired (tonight was supposed to be his night off), and his blue gaze keeps flicking towards Grissom and then away. Grissom, meanwhile, is looking downright drained, although his stride is as steady as always, and he doesn't seem to notice Hodges' sideways glances.

"I stole all of Sanders' Blue Hawaiian," Hodges says, and does another quick flick of his blue eyes towards Grissom, a smirk forming on his lips. "The coffee will be ready by the time we get back inside."

"_All_ of his Blue Hawaiian?" Grissom echoes, and stops walking at that, turning slightly sideways to stare at the other man and raise an eyebrow. "That's a bit extreme."

Hodges snorts at that. "You look about ready to collapse. I figured you need all the caffeine that you could get, and I didn't want you poisoning yourself with Sara's sludge." He attempts an easy smile and shrugs, tucking his hands into his lab coat pockets. When Grissom just looks at him, he rolls his eyes and mutters, "Fine, I'll slip forty dollars into his locker. You're such a spoilsport."

A small little smile touches Grissom's lips at that. "Tell you what, we'll both give him twenty."

Catherine subconsciously takes another drag on her cigarette, fascinated by the scene in front of her. Since when did Hodges and Grissom _banter_? And Hodges act like a mother hen?

She is still staring when Hodges does another flick of his gaze, this one lingering into an outright stare, and then comments in a low voice (if it wasn't Hodges, she would swear he sounds almost concerned), "You look like death warmed over."

Grissom looks amused. "Has anyone told you that you're charming, David?"

"When did you last sleep?" Hodges presses.

Grissom shakes his head and avoids the question by saying, "I'll catch up on my sleep once we get through this shift." He looks around and Catherine automatically ducks out of sight, forced to be content with just listening to the two men.

Hodges chuckles softly. When he speaks, he sounds almost indulgent. "I suppose that's the best I can hope for, knowing you." There is a long pause, and then he remarks off-handedly, "You don't really think I dragged you out here just to tell you I stole Sanders' Blue Hawaiian, do you?"

"You didn't?" Grissom says, equally bland.

"The wonderful thing about this spot," Hodges continues in the same off-hand tone, "is that no one ever comes here, so if you want privacy, you've got it."

"Privacy, is it?" There is an unfamiliar lilt to Grissom's voice, and from her position in the shed, Catherine blinks and then frowns in utter bewilderment as there is a long moment of silence.

Curiosity defeats caution in a landslide, and after another moment of that peculiar silence, she peeks back through the window and…gawks.

For a second, her brain tries to pretend that they are struggling with each other, tussling like teenagers to vent off some steam, for the sake of her sanity, but it's hard to dupe herself when Grissom seems prepared to devour Hodges' mouth with his own and God, was Hodges _grinding_--?

She stares and keeps staring, and the forgotten cigarette dangles between her fingers until it burns down to her skin and singes her. Her half-yelp, half-muttered curse is loud enough for two pairs of startled blue eyes to turn upon her, and she flushes under their shocked gazes, feeling almost like a voyeur.

Catherine isn't certain whether her smile is one of embarrassment or amusement (certainly those two emotions are the ones battling for dominance in her mind at the moment), but her voice is carefully neutral as she drops the cigarette and grinds it under her feet. "Griss. Hodges."

"Catherine," Hodges says after a moment, eyeing her warily.

She is silent for a moment, taking in Grissom's flushed face and Hodges' slightly defiant look, and then shrugs and comments, sliding another cigarette from her pack and lighting it (she's earned a second nicotine boost, damn it), "I suppose I'm going to have to find another place to smoke."

**4.**

"Go away, Sanders," Hodges says without looking up from the microscope, and Greg conjures up an elaborate pout.

"Aw, Hodges, if I didn't know better, I'd say you didn't like me," he teases and hops onto the counter, earning a dirty look from the tech. "Got the results back on those paint chips?"

"They'll be ready in a couple of minutes," Hodges says, and rolls his eyes. "Now, get off my counter. Take a page out of Sara and Nick's book. _They_ don't molest my counter when they're coming in for results."

"I'm not molesting the counter. I'm not that desperate," Greg protests, and now it's his turn to roll his eyes when Hodges just looks at him and smirks. "Shut up. And stop thinking whatever insult you're thinking."

Really, he couldn't figure out why Hodges didn't bug Grissom -- he sure as hell bugged everyone else. But apparently Hodges didn't bother Grissom anymore than everyone else in the crime lab did. Greg just didn't get it. How could Grissom be irritated equally by, say, Hodges and Sara, or Hodges and Catherine? It just didn't make _sense_.

He glances around, already bored. Shouldn't the results be done by now? Maybe if he--

"Stop humming," Hodges says irritably, and when Greg blinks at him, rolls his eyes once more. "You were humming some ridiculous song. Though I must admit, the music was better than your normal metal band crap. Who was it by, an actual composer?"

Greg folds his arms against his chest and frowns. "Metal bands are not crap, and it's not my fault Grissom got some song from a bloody opera stuck in my head. He was listening to it the entire time I was giving him updates on the case."

"He was obviously trying to ignore you," Hodges remarks, and smirks when Greg glares. "Maybe no one's told you, Sanders, but on a scale of 1 to 10 regarding your annoyance factor, you rank about a 12--"

A phone ringing interrupts his insult. Or more precisely, a cell phone beginning to play the exact same song Grissom had been listening to in his office. Greg just gawks as Hodges freezes up for a moment and then the trace tech lets loose a string of profanity as he fumbles with his cell and cuts the song off mid-note.

"Hodges," he snaps into the phone. "Yeah, Grissom, I was just telling Sanders here the results would be ready in a minute. I'll send him over once the results are done, all right? Okay." He shuts the phone with a vindictive snap and glares at the cell spitefully for a moment.

Greg feels his smile stretch from ear to ear, and he can hear the triumph in his voice as he crows, "That was the same song that Grissom was listening to in his office. The one you claimed you'd never heard before. Why would you lie about a song?"

Hodges just glares at him, and Greg cannot keep from snickering. Okay, so Grissom and Hodges was a pretty weird couple, but the amusement factor? Through the roof! He could torment Hodges for _months_ about this, and once the other lab rats found out--

"Grissom's a very private man, Sanders," Hodges says, as though reading Greg's mind, and his voice is like steel. "I wouldn't look too closely in his private life if I were you."

Greg blinks and cannot help but pout a little. The fact that should their relationship be discovered by someone like Ecklie or Atwater both Grissom and Hodges would probably be fired _did_ put a damper on his fun.

"Fine, fine," he sighs, and then a thought occurs to him, and he bursts out laughing. "Man, I wish I could be there whenever Sara finds out, just to see her face. That's gonna be _priceless_."

One of the machines beeps, and Hodges snatches the results up before Greg can even move. "I'll give these to Grissom myself," he all but growls.

Greg's laughter follows him out the door.

**5.**

Judy ducks her head, hiding a smile as Ecklie storms past her desk, the man looking irritated and more than a little confused. It is much the same look he wore when he lost that corpse, and she cannot help but wonder what Ecklie's misplaced now. She is very glad she thought to hide her smile, because a minute later Ecklie stops and storms back to the reception area.

"Where's Grissom?" he demands, answering her silent question. He's misplaced the graveyard shift supervisor. "I need him for a case, and he isn't responding to my pages."

"He has today and tomorrow off," she reminds him without having to look at the computer. Grissom has never taken vacation time the entire time she's been here (going to seminars didn't count as vacation to her), and then suddenly the man had shocked her with taking not one day, not two days, but an entire _week_ off. Of course she knows the day he's due back.

"Why the -- of course he'd take vacation time when I need him here," Ecklie mutters, and she watches as he turns and storms off in search of someone to blame for his latest misfortune.

And things might have returned to normal then, but Warrick and Catherine walk by five minutes later while Judy's mind is still on Grissom's sudden vacation; the two are deep in conversation.

"I'm just saying that it's been kind of nice without Hodges around. Travis is a much nicer guy," Warrick says with a chuckle.

Catherine frowns. "Warrick, didn't you hear? Hodges is at his mother's funeral. He has this entire week off. Apparently he took her death really hard." And then they are out of hearing range, leaving Judy staring after them.

It _has_ to be a coincidence, she tells herself. Just because Grissom takes his first vacation, citing "personal reasons," at the exact time Hodges leaves to attend his mother's funeral doesn't mean anything. After all, Grissom and _Hodges_? There wasn't even a betting pool for those two, unlike the pools for Grissom and Sara, or Catherine and Warrick (although that one was over with, or at least temporarily suspended, because of Warrick's marriage), or even Nick and Bobby….

Still, curiosity is contagious, and she's been here at the crime lab long enough to be imbibed with a CSI's nosiness, so she brings up the work schedules for Grissom and Hodges on her computer, checking out their off days on a whim. Sure enough, for the past few months they've had about 80 of their days off at the same time. She pulls up other work schedules -- Sara's, Nick's, Greg's -- just to double-check, but none of the others have their work schedules synchronize anywhere close to that percent.

Judy leans back in her chair and blinks before she fights back an amused grin. Well. Grissom and Hodges. That's…certainly interesting. She doesn't quite _understand_ the relationship, only understands the evidence that points to it, but well, she supposes they're both dysfunctional and she knows they both deserve a bit of happiness (okay, at the very least Grissom deserves some happiness). If they find that happiness in being with one another, well, she isn't going to argue. Whatever floats their boat and all that jazz.

She waits three weeks before she gives into temptation and creates a pool for Grissom and Hodges. She figures they'll get caught eventually, so what's the harm in making some money off the inevitable? The only thing she hasn't counted on is the varying reactions of several CSIs -- Sara's face goes pinched and sorrowful and she refuses to speak to Judy for the rest of the night; Nick turns beet red and mumbles something about not wanting to even _think_ about that and speaking of those pools, could she tell whoever keeps saying that he and Bobby are going to get together to _stop_; Catherine glares and tells her in no uncertain terms that she shouldn't even joke about Grissom sleeping with someone he works with, never mind the fact that Catherine was the one who had started not only the Grissom and Sara pool but the Nick and Bobby one as well; and Greg, well, Greg just grins and winks at her like they share a secret and doesn't bet for or against, but instead places a bet on Bobby and Nick getting together within the next three months.


End file.
